I am afraid my talk will be of no use or interest to
you, for I really have no special knowledge. But after
putting this off so long I have finally had to come here
to say a few words.

It seems to me that among the many requests
shouted at writers and artists today, one of the loudest
is the demand for a genius. And this proves two
things: first, that there is no genius just now in China;
secondly, that everybody is sick and tired of our
modern art. Is there really no genius? There may
be, but we have never seen one and neither has anyone else. So on the evidence of our eyes and ears
we can say there is not—not only no genius, but no
public capable of producing a genius.

Genius is not some freak of nature which grows of
itself in deep forests or wildernesses, but something
brought forth and nurtured by a certain type of public.
Without such a public there will be no genius. When
crossing the Alps, Napoleon once declared, "I am
higher than the Alps!" What a heroic statement! But
we must not forget how many troops he had at his
back. Without these troops he would simply have been
captured or driven back by the enemy on the other
side; and then, far from seeming heroic, his behaviour
would have appeared that of a madman. To my mind,
then, before we expect a genius to appear, we should
first call for a public capable of producing a genius.
In the same way, if we want fine trees and lovely
flowers, we must first produce good soil. The soil,
actually, is more important than the flowers and trees,
for without it nothing can grow. Soil is essential to
flowers and trees, just as good troops were to Napoleon.

Yet judging by present-day pronouncements and
trends, the demand for genius goes hand in hand with
attempts to destroy it—some would even sweep away
the soil in which it might grow. Let me give a few
examples:

First, take the "study of national culture." Although
the new ideas have never made much headway in
China, many old fogeys—young ones too—are already
scared to death and have started ranting about national culture. "China has many good things," they
assure us. "To run after what is new instead of
studying and preserving the old is as bad as renouncing our ancestral heritage." Of course, it carries
enormous weight to trot out our ancestors to make a
point; but I cannot believe that before the old jacket
is washed and folded no new one must be made. As
things stand at present, each can do as he pleases: old
gentlemen who want to study the national culture are
at liberty to pore over dead books by their southern
windows, while the young can have their living studies
and modern art. As long as each follows his own bent,
not much harm will be done. But to rally others to
their banner would mean cutting China off for ever
from the rest of the world. To demand this of everyone is even more fantastic! When we talk with curio-dealers, they naturally praise their antiques, but they
do not condemn painters, peasants, workers and the
rest for forgetting their ancestors. The fact is they
are much more intelligent than many old scholars.

Then take the "worship of original work." Looked
at superficially, this seems quite in keeping with the
demand for genius; but such is not the case. It smacks
strongly of chauvinism in the realm of ideas, and thus
will also cut China off from the current of world
opinion. Although many people are already tired of
the names of Tolstoy, Turgeniev and Dostoevsky, how
many of their books have been translated into Chinese?
Those who look no further than our own borders dislike the names Peter and John, and will read only
about Third Chang and Fourth Li; thus come the
original writers. Actually, the best of them have
simply borrowed some technical devices or expressions from foreign authors. However polished their
style, their content usually falls far short of translations, and they may even slip in some old ideas to
suit the traditional Chinese temperament. Their
readers fall into this trap, their views becoming more
and more confined, until they almost shrink back between the old traces. When such a vicious circle
exists between writers and readers for the abolition of
all that is different and the glorification of the national
culture, how can genius be produced? Even if one
were to appear, he could not survive.

A public like this is dust, not soil, and no lovely
flowers or fine trees will grow from it.

Then take destructive criticism. There has long
been a great demand for critics, and now many have
appeared. Unhappily, quite a number of them just
carp and complain instead of writing genuine criticism.
As soon as a work is sent to them, they indignantly
grind their ink and lose no time in penning a most
superior verdict: "Why, this is simply childish. What
China needs is a genius!" Later even those who are
not critics learn from them and raise the same clamour. Actually, the first cry of even a genius at birth is the same as an ordinary child's: it cannot possibly
be a beautiful poem. And if you trample something
underfoot because it is childish, it is likely to wither
and die. I have seen several writers scared into
silence by abuse. There was doubtless no genius
among them, but even the ordinary ones I would like
to keep.

Of course, the destructive critics have great fun
galloping over the tender shoots. The ones to suffer
are the tender shoots—ordinary shoots as well as
shoots of genius. There is nothing disgraceful in
childishness; for childishness and maturity in writing
are like childhood and manhood among human beings.
A writer need not be ashamed of making a childish
start, because unless he is trampled underfoot he will
grow to maturity. What is incurable is decadence and
corruption. I would let those who are childish—some
of them may be old people with childlike hearts—express themselves in a childish way, speaking simply
to please themselves; and when the words are said or
even published, there let the business end. No attention need be paid to any critics, whatever banners they
carry.

I dare say at least nine-tenths of the present company would like to see a genius appear. Yet as things
are at present it is not only hard to produce a genius,
but hard to procure the soil from which a genius could
grow. It seems to me that while genius is born, not
made, anyone can become part of the soil to nurture
genius. It is more urgent for us to provide the soil
than to demand the genius; for otherwise, even if we
have hundreds of geniuses, they will not be able to
strike root for lack of soil, like bean-sprouts grown on
a plate.

To be the soil we must become more broad-minded.
In other words we must accept new ideas and free ourselves of the old fetters, in order to accept and
appreciate any future genius. Nor must we despise
the humblest tasks. Original writers should go on
writing; others can translate, introduce, enjoy, read,
or use literature to kill time. It may sound rather odd
to speak of killing time with literature, but at least
this is better than trampling it underfoot.

Of course the soil cannot be compared with genius,
but even to be the soil is difficult unless we persevere
and spare no pains. Still, everything depends on
men's efforts, and here we have a better chance of
success than if we wait idly for a heaven-sent genius.
In this lie the strength of the soil and its great expectations, as well as its reward. For when a beautiful blossom grows from the soil, all who see it naturally take pleasure in the sight, including the soil
itself. You need not be a blossom yourself to feel a
lifting of your spirit-provided, always, that soil has
a spirit too.